


A Hope in Hell

by ivoryandhorn



Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series), Warcraft
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: no_true_pair, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-08
Updated: 2009-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoryandhorn/pseuds/ivoryandhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvanas has ever been a protector -- of the living, undead, or otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hope in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS for the fourth season finale of Teen Titans.**
> 
> Prompt: _Raven and Sylvanas Windrunner with the title, "A Hope in Hell"_

She did not know how she had come to be in this place. The stench of sulfur filled her nostrils, the constant flickers of flame made her armor and leathers uncomfortably tight about her limbs—a counterfeit of life's warmth that Sylvanas found sorely lacking. Were she not already dead, she might have been most worried about the barren landscape's absolute lack of vegetation or water—unless one counted the gouts of steam that occasionally screamed from narrow black fissures in the rather overly numerous rocks.

Sylvanas decided it would not too fantastic to lay the blame for her strange teleportation at the feet of Arthas. It seemed she would never be free of the whelp's machinations. Or at least, she would be—once she had found her way out his latest scheme to delay the inevitable. She fully intended to make the man choke on his own pride, even if it required pulling this hellish place apart pebble by pebble first.

All she needed was a way out.

A sudden flicker of white in the corner of her eye caught her attention, stark against the reddish landscape she traversed. Sylvanas kept her stance relaxed, but her every sense was attuned to who—or what—was watching her. When whatever it was did not reappear, she nocked an arrow in her bow and walked on. Let them show themselves if they intended to attack—and if not, they were no concern of hers.

The flash of white suddenly appeared again. This time, though, it was accompanied by the soft sound of quick footsteps, and this time Sylvanas gave chase, weaving between stone spires until at last she came upon her quarry, huddled against a soaring cliff face. Sylvanas saw before her…a child. A girl—alive, of that she had no doubt, though the child's skin was pallid grey and her short, straight hair was violet. Her body was swathed in a white cloak and her wide blue eyes gazed from its wide hood, fearful. Sylvanas gazed back unflinchingly, though inwardly she puzzled over this strange turn of events.

"Who are you?" she demanded. The child flinched, and the undead queen made an effort to modulate the necrotic energies that tainted even her voice, making it echo as if from the depths of some great mausoleum. "Who are you?" she repeated, making her words even and regular.

The child blinked at her, guileless.

"How came you to be in such a forsaken place?" she queried.

Still no answer.

"Are you dumb?" she asked. "Can you not speak?"

In reply, the child pulled her voluminous cloak tighter about her body.

"I shall have to assume so," she muttered. Aloud, she continued, "I am Sylvanas Windrunner, Ruler of the Forsaken, also called the Banshee Queen." It had been long and long since Sylvanas had overly concerned herself with matters of _right_ and _wrong_, but still some remnant of her soul rebelled at the idea of leaving a defenseless child to fall prey to whatever Arthas' plan for her had been, though she could not fathom how he might have taken any kind of offense to a child such as the one crouched before her. Unless it had merely been for his amusement, something she would not put pass the blasted man.

The child made no indication of having recognized a single of the titles Sylvanas had listed, which was perhaps just as well. Sylvanas was already having enough trouble deciding what to do with the girl. Unlike her sisters she had never been one to play at being mother when she was a child; much preferring to challenge her brothers to duels and shooting contests, riding through the woods of Eversong and hunting the deer and rabbit that fled before her bow. That had been long and long ago, decades and centuries ago—a lifetime ago. None of which shed any light on her current predicament: she could not simply _leave_ the child in this place, but she did not how to care for a mute, frightened girl either, and indeed had not the slightest inclination to do so.

Before she could pose any more questions to the child or decide what to do about her, she was distracted by a guttural snarl from behind. Sylvanas barely managed to bring her bow up in time to shoot at the creature charging behind her: half man, half goat, its hooves clattered against the rock floor. The beast cursed as her arrow thudded into its shoulder; with barely a pause, it raised its claws and continued its charge. Sylvanas dodged easily and this time loosed two more arrows into its back, each flaring with flame and necrotic energies. Black blood splattered over the rocks as the satyr howled and turned towards her once more. She readied her bow once more—

—but this time the beast charged _past_ her, towards the cliff face—

—towards the _child_—

She whirled and if she'd had a heart that could it would have been pounding through her breastplate—but scarcely had Sylvanas taken aim did she nearly let her arrow fall to her feet, for the satyr was pounding desperately at the child, yes, but its claws scraped harmlessly over a shield of pure black, through which Sylvanas could just see the vaguely white shape of the child huddled in fear.

Quickly, she fired twice more—each arrow burying its head in the satyr's knees, and it collapsed with a shriek and more curses. Drawing her sword, Sylvanas approached the thrashing beast, fending off its last desperate attack before removing its ugly head from its shoulders.

She paused to remove her arrows and to wipe her sword clean as best she could on the beast's matted fur. Only once Sylvanas was assured of her weapon's relative cleanliness did she sheathe it once again, before rising, bow in hand. The girl-child's shield faltered, and finally faded. Her eyes were wider than ever, iris ringed by white in panic.

"Come," Sylvanas said as gently as possible. "Let us leave this place, you and I." She held out a gauntleted hand, and waited.

Slowly, the child rose and shuffled over to her. After a long moment, she shyly placed her own hand—small, also grey, thin wrist encased by a white sleeve—into Sylvanas'.

"A good trick, your shield," she said, turning away from the cliff and corpse. "Such power is rare in the very young. I have not seen its like before in all my years, and I have had many of them."

The child squeezed her hand in reply; the motion faint through the layers of leather and armor. When Sylvanas looked down she saw the girl smiling up at her shyly, looking pleased. Sylvanas hid her answering smile in her hood. No, she had never been one to play at being mother—but it was good, to have something to protect again.


End file.
